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What rests upon the altar of your life? What are you making sacred with your presence?

Each morning I light a candle and I pray. I fill the kettle and meditate while the water heats. After time on the bench, I prepare hot water and lemon for my first drink of the day.

Someone gifted me with a cup last year. It is simple. Elegant. White on the inside, black outside. No handle. It is meant to be cradled. Inside the rim is written “Rituals…”. The name of a shop in Holland, this bit of advertising reminds me that yes, my life is an altar. Each morning, I squeeze half a lemon into the cup. The wooden juicer fits just so into my palm, the other hand cups the bright half round as the juice spills into the bottom of the white interior. I can be present with the lemon, the juicer, and the cup. I can be present as I lift the kettle and hot water pours out, diffusing the juice.

All of these actions are as simple as the cup. Ordinary. All of these actions become sacred by the fact that I am present and paying attention. My mind isn’t wandering in its list of things to do. I’m not wanting to do anything except be with water, lemon, and cup.

What rests upon the altar of your life? What are you making sacred with your presence?

We can infuse any activity with the scent of the sacred. How does our body touch the chair, how are hands and arms connected to our shoulders? We are present with our bodies as we type – trying to communicate across great distances. What happens when we pass a tree? Do we drink it in with our eyes? Do we say hello to the sparrows? We are present as we walk to work, or lunch, or home.

There is no place that is not holy ground. When we are present – oriented to East and West, North and South, oriented in and out – we find the sacred waiting, everywhere.

As soon as I stepped across the line and onto the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, I began to weep…

Saturday, we walked 15 miles on asphalt, feet and knees screaming. By the final few miles, my muscles were beginning to seize up. I breathed deeply, realigned, and extended my spine to the sky. It helped. During each day of the walk, many flashed peace signs at us, many ignored us, and some gave the one-fingered greeting. Truckers blew their horns and bikers raised arms in salutation. We battled banners in the winds when they came. During still times, I opened my blue parasol that read “Love, Not Fear”. We walked the desert highway, next to glimmering rocks and cacti, whether we were 18 years old, or 80. The desert gifted me with a black rock bisected by a ascending white stripe that looked like it was heading off into the distance. The road I walked gave me back a little drawing of a road to take in memento vivere.

Western Shoshone Chief Johnnie Bobb and his family greeted us with the Shoshone flag, burning sage, drumming, and singing as we limped on up to the peace camp where dinner cooked by local volunteers would soon be ready. I felt grateful to be there, to give some small witness to the Western Shoshone – who’s land, despite the Ruby Valley Treaty, has been used to stoke the fires of war – and to the land itself, to the tiny red and purple flowers, to the yucca, cholla and nopal.

We live in times of war and preparation for war. This has affected our minds. We live in times of torture and training for torture. This has affected our hearts. We live in times when the assassination of those who feel threatening to us – whether US citizens or “foreigners” – is acceptable to the governing body of a nation, and to the president who promised hope and change. This has affected our souls. We are awash in the needless shedding of blood and the tears of mothers, fathers, lovers, and children. We are complicit with systems that tear us from each other, that distance us from breath and skin and love, that tell us we are not of the earth, and can degrade the fertile body of this planet, and can degrade even the space between the stars.

We are crying from the wounding of this body, of our body. And it is not going to get better any time soon.

Sunday morning, I rose at 4:30 after another night spent at the Goddess Temple. Others had camped out on Shoshone land, braving the harsh wind and cold. I awoke during the night and sent some energy of calming to the sky, thinking of small tents buffeted with little shelter from the land itself. The outdoor sleepers said the wind stilled itself around 1:30, giving rest and respite for awhile. We made our way back, to join the others around a small fire, while Johnnie Bobb sang for fire and water and for his father, the Sun. We danced and danced together, circling around those flames, feet stepping to the heartbeat of his drum. Later, mass was said, and reconnection made to the sacred in that way. We are of earth. We are of community. We are in communion. But we have to remember. We have to keep drawing ourselves back.

Children of the earth, it is time to heed the calling of your heart. It is time to listen to the roaring in your soul. It is time to take up the task of your desire. As visionary Deena Metzger once wrote: “There is no time not to love.” Can we set aside our fear and hatred of each other? Can we dance the dance of heartbreak and the longing for deep peace?

After Easter Mass – the mass of resurrection in which Fr. Steve spoke of Jesus crawling, bruised and battered, from his tomb – we were led again by the Shoshone to the gates of the bomb beleaguered land. We carried our banners and our prayers. We carried our resolve and our longing. Some began to wail at the white line that marks the boundary between one world and another, between the place where we could stand and the place where we could not. People began wailing, and crying. The drumbeat started and I had to cross. I had to stand upon that land and offer what healing I could muster. I had to walk upon the stones and sand of ancient seabed where I had not stood for a decade of years.

As soon as I stepped across that line, I began weeping. The land rose up and met my feet, surrounding me with recognition: I had come. I had come. I had come.

Once inside the holding pen, I hung a string of paper cranes to fly in the harsh wind, and then walked as far as I could and looked out upon the desert, sending wings of energy and light up into sky and down to earth. Spreading these wings, I let healing roll out from me. The land drank. I could do little, but as we always do, I did my best with what I had. The wind held my body upright, I moved with it, as though riding on the ocean, or dancing with a firm and strong beloved wrapped around my back. I was home… for I was with my Mother, who is everywhere and no place. I was standing on the earth.

Brothers and sisters, these times, like many others, are times that test the resiliency of our souls. As have some of our ancestors before us, I hope we choose the patterns of joy and reconnection rather than stepping toward hatred and our fear. Walking the pathways of joy, we have some chance.

“Freedom is hard to bear. It can be objected that I am speaking of political freedom in spiritual terms, but the political institutions of any nation are always menaced and are ultimately controlled by the spiritual state of that nation… Privately, we cannot stand our lives and dare not examine them; domestically, we take no responsibility for (and no pride in) what goes on in our country; and internationally, for many millions of people, we are an unmitigated disaster. ”
– James Baldwin from “The Fire Next Time”

Thursday night we sang and prayed to Sekhmet to give us the fire of courage to face the wars we carry inside ourselves, to connect with the fire in the earth and the stars, and the fire in our own blood, in our hearts and minds, that would enable us to face the fires of war that have so ravaged this desert. The mighty black statue of Sekhmet faced the direction of the Nevada Test Site, and the temple itself is situated three miles from Creech Air Force Base and eight miles from two prisons. Prophet James Baldwin is right: as long as there is war inside me, there will be war on earth. As long as I build prisons in my soul, humanity will imprison itself.

Planes glided silently overhead as we walked the Stations of the Cross outside the long fence. Soldiers patrolled in a big truck nearby, following our movements. The desert sun was hot, but thankfully for this hour or so, the winds were still. As I looked up into the sky, I could not help but notice that the Predator looked remarkably like a wasp, reminding me of my sacred encounter the week before. But this was a wasp I did not want to find another home. This was a silent, unmanned, death-dealing wasp who – along with its larger cousin, the Reaper who also made test runs overhead – would not only do surveillance, but carry missiles and bombs over Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq. Designed to save US military personnel and to more accurately assess targets, 32% of those they kill are still civilians, and of course, sometimes mistakes are made.

Later that afternoon, we held vigil outside the base. Part of the time, I sat on the ground in meditation while anchoring a large banner that fought with the returned wind. As I opened my aura out to hold the desert, I could not help but feel that we all must hold each other, as best we can, whether UAV operators, the county Sheriff, the counter-protestors, or the yucca and cholla that dotted the landscape. As military personnel drove off the base toward home, some ignored us, some few flashed peace signs, and one held up his book on Che Guevara.

UAV operators in Nevada and California are killing people across the world, as we speak. They watch the videos implanted in the gliders and watch, in graphic close ups yet from great distance, as people are blasted into small components of humanity. This also shatters the enlisted men and women, as we can well imagine.

The Military Times reports:“The Air National Guardsmen who operate Predator drones over Iraq via remote control, launching deadly missile attacks from the safety of Southern California 7,000 miles away, are suffering some of the same psychological stresses as their comrades on the battlefield. Working in air-conditioned trailers, Predator pilots observe the field of battle through a bank of video screens and kill enemy fighters with a few computer keystrokes. Then, after their shifts are over, they get to drive home and sleep in their own beds. But that whiplash transition is taking a toll on some of them mentally, and so is the way the unmanned aircraft’s cameras enable them to see people getting killed in high-resolution detail, some officers say.”

What are we doing here, with these wars? We are damaging ourselves, our souls, and the earth. We no longer even have the satisfaction of grappling with another human, hand to hand. We are dealing out death at a distance, and slowly dying inside. Freedom is hard to bear. But so is war. So is our enslavement and inner blindness. How shall we waken to the light that dawns over the desert so beautifully? If life and death are sacred, what is our role in these wars being fought via real-time video games? We try to distance ourselves from the cycles of the earth, but in the long run, this simply is not possible.

As Gen. Stanley McChrystal wrote in his report to President Obama regarding the war in Afghanistan:

“Pre-occupied with protection of our own forces, we have operated in a manner that distances us – physically and psychologically – from the people we seek to protect… The insurgents cannot defeat us militarily; but we can defeat ourselves.”

And so, we keep walking in the desert, beneath the unforgiving sun and scouring wind.

Here is a continuation of the previous post on the Planned Parenthood action:

As a Pagan, I have a deep sense that the sacred flows through all and that includes creation and destruction. I also sense that in this flow, spirit can move on if necessary. I had an abortion once, many years ago, when a condom broke with someone who was in no way a partner to me, and I was ill equipped to care for a child, as it was struggle enough to pay my own rent. I spoke to the spirit and asked it to please be released to do its work through some other means. The decision was not easy, and I vowed to never go through that again, but I was certainly grateful for the option, both for myself and the spirit that would have taken root in me.

Let me say this, clearly: An adult woman’s life is more valuable to me than the life of a fetus. A fetus is potential. An adult is action. Both are part of the sacred flow, yes, but if a choice must be made, I know where I stand. I eat things in order to live, are these things not a part of sacred flow? They are. Every time I breathe, I’m harming and killing microbes of all sorts. Are they not part of sacred flow? They are. These things are sacred, and still, I choose to live, and hope to contribute something to this cosmosphere that is worthy of all the little lives I take each day. I would not be living this life if I had a 20 year old whom I had raised. For some, parenting is a powerful, gracious act that feeds their lives. For me, this was not to be so.

In the 1980s, I did ‘clinic defense’ when Operation Rescue was out in full force at clinics. I helped make cordons through which women and men could walk to have access to services. I also shouted at the shouters. Yesterday, it felt good to sit in silence and hold the clinic in my field of awareness. I even blessed the protesters across the street, because they had provided the impetus for my being there at all.

One man who joined us yesterday was there because he had friends who had died from botched, illegal abortions. Even with limited and dangerous options, those women still needed to choose. May we honor life by honoring our ability to personally make strong and difficult choices, in order to best support the unfolding of life’s path. May the sacred move through us, informing our decisions. May we act with an impulse toward life in all its varied glory. May we make choices, like adults, with full consciousness of our acts and the risk of their consequences. May we live fully, honorably, and contribute our very best to give back to the fabric of all.

The choice I made many years ago is one that was wrenching, and I stand by it. The best I can do, every day, is to let my life be a legacy: to that spirit I sent on its way when it was the barest fingerling of matter on this plane; to the spirits of all the food I eat; to all the microscopic beings I make use of; to the fossil fuel I expend each time I travel to teach…. The list goes on. Some things are born and some things die. My life is part of that. I do harm. I also do my level best to do good.

As a Pagan, I honor life and I honor death. To give full honor is to take personal responsibility for my part in these cycles. Sometimes one thing must give way for another to rise. This is not without struggle, and most often, the struggle is within.

So if you ask me, I will say, “It’s complicated, so yes, I am pro-choice.” And to be pro-choice means to be pro-responsibility, pro-contemplation, and pro-action. It means sometimes we hold death, to better serve this life.

Life is complicated, yes, yet the answer is still simple: we try to live according to our ideals.

We are so often waiting for the grand gesture, and the energy to support it, but reality is, our lives make a difference. Reality is, each choice affects another day, another situation, another outcome.

When someone told me about 40 Days for Life, which has been organizing to set up prayer protests at Planned Parenthood offices around the US, I wanted to do something to support the work of Planned Parenthood itself, which has been providing health care services for birth control to low income people for close to 100 years.

Here’s a slice of history:

Planned Parenthood dates its beginnings to 1916 when (Margaret) Sanger, her sister, and a friend open America’s first birth control clinic in Brooklyn, New York. In Sanger’s America, women cannot vote, sign contracts, have bank accounts, or divorce abusive husbands. They cannot control the number of children they have or obtain information about birth control, because in the 1870s a series of draconian measures, called the Comstock laws, made contraception illegal and declared information about family planning and contraception “obscene.”

Sanger knows the tragic toll of such ignorance. Her mother had 18 pregnancies, bore 11 children, and died in 1899 at the age of 40. Working as a nurse with immigrant families on New York’s Lower East Side, Sanger witnesses the sickness, misery, and death that result from unwanted pregnancy and illegal abortion. The clinic she opens provides contraceptive advice to poor, immigrant women, some of whom line up hours before the doors open. Police raid the clinic and all three women are convicted of disseminating birth control information.

To honor this impulse was simple: I told some people I would be sitting in silent meditation outside my local Planned Parenthood yesterday. I called the offices to let them know we would be there. Ten of us showed up, some for the whole time, some for a portion of it. We held signs that read, “We Support Planned Parenthood” and “Women’s Lives are Sacred” in clear contrast to the signs across the street from the clinic. Energetically and physically, we were on the side of the clinic, breathing in the cold air for one hour.

Several people thanked us for being there, one man said he was ‘incredibly grateful to see us’. A bus driver honked his horn. We just sat in silence. Apparently a Planned Parenthood worker came out, and gave us a thumbs up. We made a difference in a few lives, including our own. We liked it so much, we’re doing it again next week.

One action – a friend sending me notice about the clinic protests – moved toward my action, which moved toward ten people supporting a local clinic. This may still not sound grand, but every action affects every other action.

To quote the old Miners Union song: “Drops of water turn the mill, singly, none.”